The Punishers: Trails of White
by VIM40
Summary: As a large influx of cocain hits the streets of New York, Frank Castle tracks the bottom of it while dealing with the doubts he has about being able to keep up the war.


_'I've killed so many drug dealers it's getting mundane. Just like my morning calisthenics, shower, breakfest, it seems like a routine based entirely on rote action with only the slightest bit of variety to spice it up.. I've been fighting the same enemy for a long time now, and it seems no matter how many casualties I inflict, their forces are replenished and reinforced. Maybe I'm only creating a stair case of bodies for the others to climb. If that's the case, will there be any end to this war? It's a war of attritition, and I'll run out breath before they do.'_

Dripping crimson rubies vomitted out from the ragged pink membrane of torn flesh, capilaries sputtering out warming layers of blood that caked the fine edged blade of Frank's combat knife. Down a few alleys away from the skinhead bar 'On the Axis' it appeared as if Andrew's body had frozen in time, paralyzed and kept aloft through the intervention of a formless pool of shadow. Only through the corner of Andrew's eye was the Punisher's form made manifest. Frank dipped his head forward, allowing the alley way's limited light source to illuminate his stone chiseled jaw and the somber expression above it. Andrew Hikes gasped audibly at the present five inches of steel holstered in the newly formed pocket of flesh wedged in the small of his back. Before Andrew could cry out for help, beg for his life, or pray to God, the tattoed neo-nazi was tasting a fold of leather from Frank's dark gloves.

"Speak or I'll twist the blade." A graveled throaty voice softly growled an inch away from Andrew's ear. Frank was so close his nostrils flared unpleasantly to the biting sting of the Andrew's cheap cologne. "I'm in no mood for games. For what reason would the 'Eight Brothers' want to buy coke from a Jamaican gang?"'

Fear welled up in the pit of Andrew's stomach, he felt cold, freezing, barely able to comprehend his situation. His death was inevitable, and the man at the helm of his down fall was none other then the legendary vigilante Frank Castle. Frank released the grip from the man's mouth, painfully yanking onto his cheek and hiking the blade up another inch, barely a centimeter away from scratching against bone. Labored gasps spewed from free lips before spilling a reason. "A deal, man. The jamaicans are trying hard to lose the product. Practically giving it away."

Soft sobs followed Andrew's explanation as his lithe figure shivered in painful protest to the hardened steel lodged in his body. Frank cleared his throat, "Why? What's scaring them?"

"Word is they owe someone big, and soon. They're selling what they can so they can make up the cost. Shit, damnit, ask them yourself."

"Good idea." Frank muttered, releasing his blade. Tucking an arm under Andrew's skinny neck, and gripping onto his ink stained dome, Frank twisted, hard. A loud resounding crack reverberated through out the alley, and before Andrew could drop lifelessly on the cold pavement, Frank was gone.

'_I don't like this amount of cohesion between gangs. It's easier to pick them off when they're hating each other, war weary from battling each other. The only benefit is when they call in a sit down, it usually ends with me on request for more ammunition.' _

...

"Ja man, special deal. How many kilos we talkin naw?" Jaz murmured into his phone, his muscled frame rested leisurely on a burgundy sofa. Dukes sat across the room in a dark green recliner, nervously stroking the barrel of the twelve gauge shot gun resting in his lap. Duke's eyes were bizarre, plump white orbs that seemed as if they were ripe enough to burst at the smallest amount of provocation. He kept his attention divided between Jazz and pornography on the twenty-two inch television.

"Ya, now dats all well an good, naw, but we'd need this deal to be done before sunday. Ya? Alright, ah'll see ya tomorrow den." Jazz flashed a gate of dark stained cracking teeth. Rolling off the sofa the drug dealer laid the phone on it's cradle and gently rubbed Duke's shoulder. "Now, now, mah boy. There aint nothing to worry about. Ya, we took a hit, but we'll survive."

"Ah 'ope so man." Duke replied, cotemplatively glancing at his weapon. Before Jazz could reply he was cut off by four heavy knocks on the wooden door of their apartment.

"Whose der?" Jazz asked curiously, rising from Duke's side to check the door.

"Its me, man, Baker." Came a muffled voice sounding out from behind the wooden portal. Jazz glanced at Dukes before rolling his eyes while muttering a frustrated obscenity. Squinting an eye through the door's peep hole, Jazz was greeted with a distasteful image of a tight black t-shirt wrapped uncomfortably around a corpulent body. It was folds of flesh left to the year long ravages of beer swilling coupled with over-eating. Grasping the fake gold handle, Jazz twisted and tugged.

"Yo, Baker, you ever hear of Jenny C-"

A gun shot reverberated through the vacant halls of a derelict hall way. Jazz fell backwards, as if having been yanked down to the floor by his own gore strewn dreads. Frank pushed Baker forward, their boots crunching across the scattered petals of Jazz's chipped cranium. With a heavy hand gripping onto the back of Baker's neck, he guided the obese thug into the forefront of the combat. Dukes had clumsily emerged from his seat at the sound of the gunshot, his shotgun clutched frightfully within a nervous embrace. His bundle of nerves caused him to raise his boomstick, focusing it on the first figure to staggar into the room.

"Dukes, no it's m-" With a thunderous blast the twelve-guage exploded out a belch of buckshot that ate away at the layer of fat on Baker's face, reducing his visage to nothing more than a pulp of glistening wet flesh. Frank could feel his shield lose the strength to support itself, so he allowed the hefty figure to collapse onto the crimson stained oak fibrious. Duke shakily leveled his weapon onto Frank's coated form, cursing the recoil from the first volley. With a pump Duke fired once more, but only after his aim was knocked off by two hot rounds from a .45. Blossoms of crimson errupted from his forearm and chest, his cough of buckshot exploded the ceiling fan above, causing it and it's rotary blades to wheel it's self across the floor. Dukes felt the strength of his legs quickly fleeting, and with the force of a third shot into right shoulder he lost balance, sending him slipping into the comfortable cushioned embrace of his recliner.

"Sit a moment." Frank grumbled, snatching and tossing Duke's shottie away from him as if he was prohibiting a toy from a spoiled child.. A splinter of exposed bone jutted from a hole of moist tissue. Dukes's body screamed out flaring bouts of pain, cursing the horrific wake of Frank's triple .45 assault on his now quivering frame. "What has your higher ups so pressed for cash?"

Dukes chuckled bitterly. Attempting to rid himself of the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, Dukes sucked blood and flem into disgusting gob, and spat it at Frank's boots. "Fuck off."

"This has been bothering me." Frank grumbled, acknowledging Dukes's bulbous eyes. With a tightened grip around Duke's oblong head, Frank drove his thumbs into Dukes's eyes. Applying pressure, the bulging orbs sunk deeper into their sockets. The amount of force from Frank's thumbs sent canals of blood errupting from his eyes, drowning his cheeks in a flood of his own life force. "That's better. Now tell me, what has you spooked?"

"Oh God!" Dukes moaned, the dreaded realization of his blindness sending him into further shock.

"That's just one fifth of what you've got going for you. I can continue with your nose next, I'll leave your tongue for last." Frank's words hit a bass tone, sharing the qualities of heavy grinding metal. His voice was devoid of emotion, he took no mirth in his grisly deed, nor did he show compassion. Gripping the black rubber handle of his blade, he stepped to begin work on the man's nose.

"Wait! Wait!" Dukes cried aloud, there was a stillness to his hands, he had regained his composure. "I'll tell you what you need to know.."

_It's hard to concentrate on details when you're dumping gallons of blood onto the furniture, but hell, Dukes pulled it off. The dying Jamaican informed me of their grave situation, and it all started with a pint of Jack Daniels and a couple dozen beers. One of the higher ups of the Butcher Bay Possee got himself drunk and stupid and lead a team of his boys to party the night away in the streets of New York. They ran into a young goomba who hurled some racial insults after a dispute at a bar. One thing lead to another and that young goomba found himself dying on the floor with a bullet wound in the belly. The issue was that young goomba was Dino Marcello, the pissant nephew of under boss Marco Rossa of the Rossa crime family. Both sides knew that the Butcher Bay Possee couldn't survive a war with the Rossa family, so they made a deal. Give over the jack ass who killed the kid, and pay a reperations fee of 400,000 dollars. So now all members of the Butcher Bay Possee are chipping in, flooding the streets with their cheap drugs and robbing as much as possible. There is supposed to be a trade off on pier twelve in two days. I've got to prepare, cook up something special for the meeting. My little stunt today might put a little bit more tension in this meeting. I thanked Dukes before blowing his teeth out the back of his head._

_..._


End file.
